


unconditional; like god's love

by ugliegay



Series: to have and to hold [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (lots of crying), Alcohol, Anxiety Attacks, Bubble Bath, Crying, Drunken Kissing, Fluff, M/M, Oh wait, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, idk what else to add y'all they get married and it's super fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10043714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ugliegay/pseuds/ugliegay
Summary: Yuuri Karsuki and Viktor Nikiforov (finally) get married.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dying you guys this is the absolute sappiest thing I have ever written ever smh. It's literally like 6k of the fluffiest shit I could come up with because I had to write this for Valentine's Day. I hope y'all enjoy.
> 
> There's alcohol obviously and there's slightly mature content at the end but not really.

Yuuri Katsuki wakes the night before his wedding with his stomach feeling like a sinking pit.

He’s nervous, more nervous than he’s been in a long time. Even with his slumbering fiance pressed snugly against his bare side, he can’t shake the feelings of discomfort; the gnawing voice in the back of his head, whispering lies to his sleep addled brain.

Because in his mind, none of this makes sense. From the moment he’d made eye contact with Viktor at the onsen, naked form glimmering and blue eyes searing into him, it hadn’t made sense. Everything since then has been far too happy; far too perfect. Good things don’t happen to Yuuri Katsuki. He doesn’t deserve them either. With his luck, he wouldn’t be surprised if Viktor just faded away in his arms just then.

Yuuri’s breathing speeds up, pupils dilating. His left hand, the one with his fourth finger wrapped in a band of gold, scrambles down the pale plane of Viktor chest and settles on his left pectoral muscle; right where he knows Viktor’s heart to be.

Under his palm is a familiar beat, the pulse of Viktor’s heart.

A sigh of relief escapes Yuuri’s mouth.

That same hand reluctantly removes itself from Viktor’s skin and cards itself through the dark brown of Yuuri’s hair. He tries to slow his breath, inhaling and exhaling to the cadence he had felt beneath his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he whispers to himself in his native tongue; wide-eyed, chest heaving. “Breathe.”

Eyelids squeeze tight over burning brown eyes. The world is still blurry and unfocused despite the intensity of his feelings. His skin is flushed, hot with panic and worry as the sweat on his palms dries.

In the shroud of night, he pulls Viktor as close as he can without making a disturbance.

Yuuri breathes; he truly breathes, like in those exercises Minako had taught him to do when he first confessed to his anxiety. He inhales from his core, feeling his stomach stretch out; then he exhales through his mouth.

The rhythm of his breath matches the lull of waves on a beach, matches the pulse of his lover’s heart. He closes his eyes, letting those waves tug him back down the the velvet tendrils of a dreamless sleep.

-

Viktor’s alarm goes off at 6:30am to both his and Yuuri’s dismay. The shrill marimba tone cuts straight through the calm, quiet air and startles Yuuri awake.

He bolts up fast enough so that the back of his head smacks into the headboard. A loud curse slips out of his mouth, stirring Makkachin from slumber. Viktor widens his bleary blue eyes and lifts his upper body so that he’s level with Yuuri’s face; cradling Yuuri’s head in his hands.

“Are you alright?” Viktor asks swiftly, voice still entangled with the remnants of sleep.

Yuuri lets out a puff of air and nods against Viktor’s ice cold fingers.

And then they both burst into laughter. Full bellied giggles come from the both of them as they shift into a hug. The moment had been so real, and truly  _ them _ . Of course Yuuri would be so startled by an alarm that he would hit his head on the morning of their wedding, probably the most important day of their lives. Even as their laughter dies out, their smiles remain.

The crisp, white sheets hug close to their unclothed bodies, rays of sunlight dancing across planes of skin. The windowed left wall of the room remains shut off by the rest of the world by blinds, but the sunset still fights its way into the room. White carpeting and a white dresser color light orange, just like the silvery tips of Viktor’s eyelashes and brows. 

Viktor pulls out of the hug. “Good morning, future Mr. Nikiforov-Katsuki,” he murmurs, voice dripping with honey and admiration.

A hand tilts Viktor’s face, leveling Yuuri’s full, welcoming lips with his own. “Good morning to you as well, future Mr. Nikiforov-Katsuki.”

They melt into a quiescent, sweet kiss, lips soft and forgiving against each other. 

“You know,” Yuuri mumbles against Viktor’s mouth, eyes half lidded, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Viktor’s lips press a tiny peck to Yuuri’s. “You know, I think you’re right,” he replies. 

Another shrill, electronic tone interrupts their musings, causing Viktor to jump out of the embrace and start patting the sheets for his phone. Makkachin whines when his flailing hands slam down on a furry paw, thus forcing Viktor to stop his search and shower his dog with cuddles and hugs. Faint whimpers of “I’m sorry” can be heard while Yuuri fights not to roll his eyes, picking up Viktor’s phone from the edge of the bed and pressing it to his ear, not reading the caller ID.

“Hello?” he asks, stifling a laugh after Viktor pulls Makkachin into his lap, continuing his profuse apologies.

The Swiss-accented voice that answers him sounds annoyed. “Yuuri? Are you two awake? I’m coming to get your fiance in twenty minutes.”

Yuuri rubs his eyes, blinking at the sun. “Chris? Is that you?”

An audible scoff comes through the line. “Of course it’s me. Now get up. You have a wedding to get ready for.”

The line goes dead. Yuuri throws the phone down to the pillow with a deep sigh and forces himself to swing his legs out from under the sheets. Goosebumps prick at the newly exposed skin. A shiver runs down Yuuri’s spine.

“I know you’re Russian and you’re like used to this or whatever,” Yuuri says with an irritated edge to his tone, “but it is way too cold in this apartment.”

Viktor has abandoned Makka in favor of pressing his ice cold fingertips to Yuuri’s back who promptly jumps out of bed, taking the entire sheet with him. “Vitya!” he squeaks, wrapping the sheet closer to his now shivering body.

Viktor lets his naked form sprawl out on the bed, perching on his side with his hand to support his head.

“Don’t you know Yuuri?” he says with an amused smile playing at his lips. “Here in Mother Russia,” his voice drops into an exaggerated tone of his regular accent, brows lowering down over a triumphant, blue gaze, “you are one with the cold and the snow!”

Yuuri stares off to the side, focusing the blur that is his and Viktor’s medals on the left wall. “I can’t believe I’m getting married to you,” he deadpans. “Put some clothes on. Chris is coming to get you in like twenty minutes.”

“I don’t think Chris would really care if I didn’t put on any clothes.”

He rolls his eyes and turns to walk out of the room, only to smack his hip into the corner of a dresser that his blurry vision had not alluded to. A curse escapes his lips. He clutches his side and groans. 

“Vitya-”

Before he can finish his sentence, Viktor’s strong body has wrapped around him, a pair of blue frames in hand. 

“Here,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s ear. 

Yuuri takes his glasses with a grateful smile. “Thank you, darling.”

The pet name is unprecedented, not something Yuuri would normally say. It slips off his tongue, as natural as it should be and settles in the air. Yuuri can feel Viktor’s cheek warm on his neck, Viktor’s smile widen against his skin. And Yuuri can't help but notice the feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. 

He turns around to give his fiancé a warm, loving kiss, wrapping the sheet around the both of them. 

And so they wordlessly fall back into their usual morning routine, only the sound of each other’s breath and the cries of seagulls through the open kitchen window can to fill up the silence. All the while, Yuuri tries to place the feeling in his stomach. 

It doesn't hit him when he's bumping hips with Viktor, brushing his teeth and sending flirty winks. 

It doesn't hit him when they get dressed together, wearing a mismatched combination of each other’s wardrobe.

It doesn’t even hit him when Viktor take it upon himself to comb out Yuuri’s hair while he answers emails on his phone.

It comes in an unexpected burst of emotion as Yuuri’s staring at Viktor making him breakfast.

Viktor is just so damn beautiful. It makes Yuuri’s chest clench up, but settles his racing heart all at the same time. He’s an absolute masterpiece, like a Monet painting come to life. It's almost too much to handle; the way his skin looks kissed by the orange sunrise, how his muscles move so elegantly, when the silver fringe of his bangs parts just enough for his light blue eyes to graze over Yuuri’s body.

And he wants this. Everyday. For the rest of his life. He wants to wake up next to Viktor, kiss him, eat breakfast with him, skate with him, make him feel good; anything, as long as he isn’t without Viktor for as long as he lives.

Yuuri knows that Viktor wants it too. His fiance may not be the best at opening up, but he knows Viktor has lead a lonely life. It’s evident in the lack of family members attending the wedding and the way he used to cling to Makkachin as if he was the only one who understood. No longer will Viktor spend his mornings alone; he will always wake up to Yuuri.

Yuuri inhales sharply.

It’s agape. It’s unconditional; like God’s love. It’s never ending and infinite, something that Yuuri couldn’t even put into words if he tried.

He parts his lips to speak, but closes them seconds later. They’re getting married in less than nine hours; he’ll say his piece then, maybe even bare his soul. For now he settles on a sweet, simple,

“I love you.”

Viktor hands Yuuri his food in a to-go plastic container, a bright, brilliant smile smattered across his face. “I love you, too!” he chirps happily, pressing a small kiss to Yuuri’s nose from across the counter.

The same shrill tone from before goes off in Viktor’s sweatpants pocket. He parts from Yuuri and goes to answer it.

“Oh, hi Chris!” Viktor says, eyes closing and smile pushing his cheeks upward. “You’re outside now? Just give me a moment, I have to say goodbye to my Yuuri!”

There’s a beat of silence before Viktor’s melodic laughter fills the air. “Aha, yes. I’ll be right down.”

Viktor hangs up, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “I’ve got to go, my love,” he says dramatically as he takes Yuuri’s hands in his own. His stare locks on to Yuuri, as earnest and true as a stare can be.

“I love you,” he breathes, “and I’ll see you soon.”

Viktor’s is not always precise in his words. He doesn’t say a lot of things, letting his feelings and thoughts be assumed rather than confirmed. His resolve to silence stems from his years of solitude.

But he’s loud in his actions. His body says what his mouth cannot. As he locks eyes with Yuuri, the only thing that reads is happiness; pure, unadulterated happiness.

Yuuri initiates their final kiss as an unmarried couple. The next time their lips meet, they will be husbands.

The thought only flairs the feeling in his stomach even more.

-

Viktor’s leaving reminds him of the actual fact of their wedding, their wedding with a guest lists that exceeds one hundred and custom floral arrangements that Viktor had insisted on and a Japanese translator who may or may not have to cancel last minute and-

The sweep of a makeup brush under his eye draws him from his thoughts, along with Phichit’s scolding.

“Yuuri, you’re definitely worrying too much right now,” he mumbles, squinting his eyes in concentration as he continues his work on Yuuri’s face. 

Yuuri has to fight himself to not roll his eyes. Instead, he settles on a frustrated huff of breath.

“There are a hundred and eighteen people coming to see me get married to Viktor Nikiforov. I have a reason to ‘worry too much,” he bites back.

Phichit doesn’t fight his eye roll. “Yuuri, this is why you got a wedding planner. She will take care of everything, including those custom baby’s breath arrangements and the three tiered cake. You will be fine. All you have to do is take a deep breath.”

Yuuri is half listening by the time Phichit finishes talking. He’s been texting Viktor under the table for the past three hours, it’s the only thing that can settle the churning in his stomach. He exits to the messenger app and goes to Snapchat, turns the camera so it’s front facing, and takes a rather unattractive photo of himself. As his hand moves to type out “I miss u a lot” he feels someone yanks the device from his hands.

When Yuuri snaps his accusing gaze up he’s met by an almost identical brown stare. Mari clutches his phone in her hand and raises an eyebrow at him. “You were gonna send that to Viktor, weren’t you?”

An annoyed look crosses Phichit’s face. Yuuri starts to deny it but Mari, as observant as always, has read what it says. “Unless you have a secret lover who you also miss a lot.”

A sigh of defeat escapes him. “I just want to be with him, Mari. I don’t care what I look like or what happens to the flowers, I just want to be his husband already,” he admits.

Phichit almost lets down his guard, but not Mari. She whacks him on the back of his head and rolls her eyes.

“You’ll see him soon enough,” she sighs. “I swear sometimes you’re more dramatic than Viktor will ever be.”

Yuuri flutters his eyes closed as he feels Phichit begin to slick pomade into his hair. A scoff escapes him. “No one will ever be more dramatic than Viktor Nikiforov.”

All three settle into a comfortable silence, Phichit busy as work making Yuuri like like the fairytale prince of Viktor’s wildest dreams while Mari fixes the bowtie on her tux and types away on her own phone. Makka is at Yuuri’s feet, his usual spot when he sleeps under the kitchen counter. A loud pop ballad drifts out of Phichit phone speaker and through the air.

“Minako and the Nishigoris’ plane just landed. They’ll be over here by eleven. Chris says everyone in Viktor’s groom’s party has already arrived and that they’ll be ready for pictures by one,” Mari updates them quietly.

Yuuri only nods, not trusting his voice to conceal his anxiety.

He looks out the window above the sink. Just meters from the glass lies the soothing waves and the rolling blue horizon; the Gulf of Finland as Viktor had once informed him. He has dozens of fond memories on that beach, some hazy and sweet with the taste of wine coolers and warm summer air, others sharp and clear with the biting, Russian cold that only Makkachin can stand. It calms him. The waves always soothe him, the same was Viktor’s hands do as they trace shapes down his back.

Phichit has started to thread a crown of the fake baby’s breath through his hair, an idea by none other than Viktor. He had truly wanted to stick to this fairytale theme, so very adamant on marrying his prince, though Yuuri knows he isn’t really a prince.

“And, we’re done,” Phichit says with a smile. 

He brings out a large, hand-held mirror from his large stockpile of makeup scattered across the counter. Mari looks up from her phone and lets out a gasp. When Yuuri sees himself, he does the same.

“Phichit,” he breathes. 

The man in the mirror is hardly recognizable. Besides the usual hair slicked back, no glasses combo, he’s literally glowing. His cheekbones are dusted with a light, almost sparkling glitter, matching the small circlet of flowers around his hair. His cheeks and lips are pink, in the full, healthy way. None of the usual flaws, like his faint acne scars on his jaw or the weird shape of his left eyebrow.

“Wow, Yuuri,” Mari says, biting her lip, “you look good.”

By the time Yuuri looks back up, Mari is in front of him crying; actually crying. Yuuri almost laughs. He hasn’t seen Mari cry since he left for the United States when he was sixteen, and that was a very brief tear that she quickly wiped away.

But, for some reason, she was full on bawling, enough so that a steady stream of tears were flowing down her face. It probably would have ruined her makeup if it weren’t for the fact that Phichit had done it; and Phichit never skimps on a good, waterproof setting spray.

It all makes sense when she says, “Yuuri, you look so happy!”    


He looks back at himself in the mirror. Mari’s right. He does look happy, and not like he’s trying to look happy either.

Yuuri stands up, adjusting his white robe as he moves. His arms settle around her middle as he settles his chin atop the elegant pin curls on her head, just like he used to do when they were younger and Yuuri had discovered he was just a few centimeters taller. 

She pulls away with an annoyed huff. “I hate you,” she says tearfully, though she clearly doesn’t mean it. “Let’s get you into your tux.”

Phichit, who had discreetly posted at least three snaps of their sibling embrace on his story, stuffs his phone into his pocket and beams a bright, blinding smile. 

“Happiness looks good on you, Yuuri,” he informs, patting Yuuri’s shoulder and steering him into the bedroom.

“Now, for the finishing touches…”

-

Yuuri just wants to get married already. He had endured getting ready, gathering up the grooms’ parties, posing everyone, and keeping his own anxiety under check, all without Viktor. He had only held his hand for two minutes when the photographer had insisted they take one of those cheesy “you can’t see each other before the wedding” type of photos. Now, all he wants is to be with him; to be his husband

The wedding party is lining up now, and Viktor is just down the hall. Yuuri wonders if he would get a reply is he shouted loud enough. He just really, really needs to see Viktor.

And then they get to all clear from the officiant. Suddenly, it’s real, so very real. This is the venue they picked out; the ballroom in that fancy hotel Viktor had insisted upon when he saw it in one of the wedding magazines. These are the crisp white tuxes with light gold accents they’d fallen in love with togther. This is their fairy tale that they are so inclined to bring to life. Yuuri’s heart swells in his chest.

Yuuri’s mother is first to go, looking elegant and gorgeous dressed in a traditional kimono with bits of baby’s breath threaded through her hair. He almost tears up at the sight. She’s beautiful, as she always has been and glowing, just as he had seen himself in the mirror earlier. 

Everyone after her flows down the aisle, just as elegant and beautiful as his mom. Minako is the second to go, in a golden flowing dress with her hair pushed back. Then goes Yukko, in the same dress and then Mari, proudly smiling in her golden tux. 

And then of course, Phichit, his best friend who had been there when Viktor Nikiforov was only a couple dozen posters on their dorm walls and gold at a Grand Prix event had been a pipe dream for the both of them. Looking at them now…

Yuuri swallows the emotions rising in his stomach and pricking at his eyes. Phichit looks ethereal in the dress, a perfect fit for someone as radiant and golden as him. There’s a light sheen in his eyes as he catches Yuuri’s gaze. They exchange a smile and Phichit is whisked down the aisle.

Yuuri feels his father tighten his grip. They’re up next.

“I’m happy for you, son,” his father says in his native tongue. “You’re so much more with him around.”

Yuuri shoots his father a quizzical glance. 

His father realizes he has to clarify. “You’re happier. He’s helped you realize so much about yourself that your mother and I never could.”

“Dad,” he replies, speaking in Japanese. “You and mom did your best. I am thankful everyday for that.”

Before any more words can be exchanged, Phichit has finished walking and is looking eagerly at Yuuri with a shining face. 

He sucks in a nervous breath and closes his eyes.

He takes two steps and he’s there, in that fairy tale they had hand crafted.

He’s met with dozens of faces, all there to see him, to celebrate him and Viktor.

The aisle stands as a clear path through the woods, a white cloth lined with small pots of white flowers and tiny tea lights. All his golden groom’s party line the left side of a breathtaking arch of white blossoms, their features alight with an unspeakable emotion. 

The last thing he registers is the music, the slow simple piano ballad playing softly in the back. Memories of his first year with Viktor come racing back; putting together a free program, practicing quads together, bandaging each other’s feet at the end of a long day on the ice. It’s  _ Yuuri on Ice _ , a ballad written specifically to celebrate his life and love, both his career and his personal life.

He almost loses it right then and there. The tears have already started of course, Yuuri has never been one to hold back emotions as powerful as these, but he never stops walking. He’s so overcome with his love and appreciation for Viktor, as he had to have been the one to request the song. Who else could know just how much those simple piano chords mean to him? 

Miraculously, Yuuri makes it all the way up to his spot on the left of the officiant in one piece. He doesn’t understand how, but he does it. Now, he just has to wait for Viktor.

Viktor’s party makes their way up the aisle, Yuri first, then Christophe, both in those lovely golden tuxes. For once, Yuri doesn’t look disgruntled, not even in the slightest. He’s got a closed lip smile on his face and somehow, someway, Christophe got a tuft of baby’s breath behind his ear. 

Of course, Makkachin is the one to bare the rings, while simultaneously performing the duty of being Viktor’s best man. He carries a tweed string in his mouth with a box at the end, two golden rings cushioned safely inside. The Nishigori triplets dance and twirl behind the well behaved Makka, tossing out white rose petals as they go. 

When they finally clear the aisle and Makkachin is seated at the right of the arch, Yuuri sucks in a breath.

The music shifts. It’s different this time, beginning with a single D# on the piano. The string quartet behind the pianist follows suite, then continues onto a flowing, beautiful ballad that reminds Yuuri painfully of how much he loves the man he is about to marry. It’s perfect, considering this was the song that brought them together, the song that they had both skated to by themselves, but better together.

Just as Yuuri thinks he can’t stand another second without Viktor, the doors open.

And there he is, arm linked with Yakov Feltsman and a grin apparent on his face.

Yuuri briefly registers the sound of a dozen camera shutters going off at once, fixated on both grooms as they take their first look at their husband to be. The music swells, a combination of strings and piano ringing out the chorus.  _ Stay close to me _ , the melody sings.

“Vitya,” he breathes, tears falling from his eyes.

Viktor is stunning; like a Van Gogh come to life, like a Mozart piece in motion. He’s cloaked in white and gold, pure as prince visiting his lover. The suit fits him so well while the circlet of baby’s breath reminds him of an angel or perhaps a god.  There’s not a single shimmering button out of place, not a single silver hair disheveled. His blue eyes light up at the sight of Yuuri and he remembers why he didn’t want to get married at a church; he has his own stained glass work of art in Viktor’s irises. 

They make it through Viktor and Yakov’s dramatic descent down the aisle without just running toward each other.

And then he’s right there, under the arch, holding both of Yuuri’s hands in his own while he looks down as if he’s seeing the face of God. 

The officiant begins his formalities and addresses and long-held traditions, but neither really care too much. They’re too busy searching each other’s eyes and memorizing the pattern of every single fingerprint on each other’s hands’.

All the while, Yuuri is thinking, as he always is. There’s a furrow in his brow and an almost far off glaze over his pupils, but he is still very much so present, almost hyper-aware of every single detail. He want’s to memorize this moment for the bad days, the days when his doubt is going to get the best of him. For right now, there is no questioning how much he is loved, nor no measure of whether he deserves it or how long until it was going to get ripped away. No, this is what it feels like to love and to be in love and he wants to remember this for the rest of his life.

Makkachin, the only responsible one as always, steps in between them to remind them that they actually have to do things in this ceremony. He offers the box in his mouth to the officiant and trots back to Viktor’s side.

“Now for the exchange of vows,” the officiant says.

From the breast pocket of their coats come identical pieces of paper. Viktor insisted upon writing their own vows; how else would it be a fairytale wedding?

So Viktor goes first, starting with a loud clearing of his throat and roll back of his shoulders. He joins with Yuuri’s free hand and gives it a gentle squeeze along with a dazzling smile; one that reaches his eyes and fills them with the soft sheen of unshed tears.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” he begins, voice already wobbling. “Four years ago, I went to a banquet for the 2015 Grand Prix Final, expecting some sponsorship offers and a couple hours talking to some boring officials. What I didn’t expect was you, an insecure skater with a high alcohol tolerance, to dance into my life, ask me for my number as you strip teased for me, and then seemingly forget it all the next day.”

Yuuri finds himself laughing even through the burning red crawling up his cheeks.  

“And then when I came to Japan to coach you, I felt like I was getting to know a whole new person,” Viktor laughs, wiping a tear away. “You were shy, reserved, and nervous, but you let me in. You opened up to me and I just…”

His bottom lip takes on a life of its own, voice growing hoarse with emotion. “I fell in love with you, Yuuri, every part of you, even your anxiety and your self-doubt.

“So, I promise every day to love you, even on your bad days. I promise that when you get stressed, I’ll be there with a hot bubble bath and a massage. I promise that when you get sad I’ll hold you and never let go. When you get mad at me I’ll give you your space but I’ll send in Makkachin because I can’t let you go without someone to cuddle.”

He earns a laugh from their audience, most dabbing away at the skin under their eyes.

“And I promise to love you until I’m old and gray and I can’t skate anymore.”

Yuri takes it upon himself to say, “well, you’ve already got all of those things covered so…”

The mic picks it up of course, but it doesn’t bother Viktor and Yuuri. They both let out giggles as a rare blush makes its way up Viktor’s cheeks. 

“Fair enough,” he laughs. “Anyway, I promise to love you forever, and even after that. You saved a lonely old man from a life of solitude, and I can’t wait to be your husband for the rest of my days.” His voice pitches upward as he struggles against the crack in his throat. 

Viktor isn’t one to cry either, at least not in front of people. In their three years of dating, Yuuri had only seen him cry a handful of times. Only once before had Viktor been so happy, so in love, that it spurred tears.

This time, he cries so easily and so beautifully, it should be considered poetry. His tears flow over highlighted cheekbones and meet the white collar of his tux, and they’re not sad at all. They’re tears of love and hope for the future.

Viktor folds the paper and stuffs it back into his pocket.

And then it’s Yuuri’s turn.

Time to bare his soul.

“Viktor,” he whispers into the mic. “”Vitya, I,”

His words waver, getting stuck in his throat.

How could he even begin to describe his love for Viktor?

Yuuri crumples up the paper in his hands and tosses it off to the side.

“I first fell in love with you when I was twelve. I saw you skate in the Junior Grand Prix series with long, silvery hair and a black costume made out of mesh. I remember turning to Yukko and saying ‘I want to skate like him some day,” Yuuri says, eyes flicking to Yukko, who nods and smiles.

“I would continue the next couple years of my life accumulating every Viktor Nikiforov poster I could, I mean I even named my miniature poodle after you and when I was thirteen, I saw you skate in a white, flowy costume and I told my mom that I was gonna marry you one day. Everyone laughed at that. Now, look at me.” Yuuri begins to laugh at himself as he squeezes Viktor’s hand.

“You mean so much to me now, it’s ridiculous. I’ve gotten to know the real man behind the most decorated male figure skater of all time and I’ve fallen completely in love with him. I never want to let you go,” Yuuri is rambling now, he knows it, but he can’t stop it.

“I promise to love you in the good times and the bad, in happiness and sadness, in gold medal or bronze. I want to be with you forever, too. I want to wake up to your bad morning breath and blue eyes across from me every morning... You have been my inspiration since I was a kid, and you continue to inspire me and surprise me all the time.”

Yuuri can’t stop the tears. “I love you. I’m so happy to be yours forever.”

There’s not a single dry eye in the house when they’re done. They exchange rings and the officiant says another couple words that go in one ear and out the other. And then finally:

“I know pronounce thee, husband and husband,” the officiant exclaims with a smile. He turns to Viktor and nods. “You may kiss the groom.”

Viktor doesn’t need any more than that. He rushes forward and captures Yuuri’s lips a sweet kiss, fingers threading through his hair. Yuuri smiles and breaks away, forehead still resting against Viktor’s.

There’s endless applause, surrounded by a flood of sunshine and flowers. It’s like a perfect picture book ending, where the prince marries his lover and they go off to live happily ever after. Yuuri is so radiant, joyous beyond belief. He doesn’t protest when Viktor swoops him up and settles him in his arms, muttering, “I love you so much, Mr. Nikiforov-Katsuki.”

Yuuri sighs, eyeing Viktor as if he’s the only thing that matters.

-

The reception had been… truly the event of the season.

Phichit’s speech had exposed every single Nikiforov fanboy experience he had suffered through with Yuuri. Christophe’s speech, on the contrary, stayed meaningful and friendly…

… Until the very end when he announced to everyone that he had brought a ‘port-a-pole 3000’ and took a long gulp of his strawberry champagne. 

There was lots of alcohol and plenty of rather weird Russian wedding games that Yuri had planned himself. JJ won half of them “by pure skill” or what everyone else could call cheating.  There were about four separate dance offs, including a reprise of the Yuuri vs. Yuri showdown from years before, and Yuuri wins as he did the first time. 

And of all the guests, all one hundred and eighteen from Yuuri’s family and Viktor’s friends and all the skaters and sportsmen, it happens to be Yuri to catch Viktor’s floral circlet, who was walking away from the dancefloor, when it landed on his head. Sara Crispino catches Yuuri’s circlet much to Mickey’s chargin and Mila’s joy.

By the end of the night, when Viktor and Yuuri are stuffed with vanilla cake and fancy alcohol they stumble into their hotel room. They giggle the entire way up, leaning on each other for support as the alcohol sets their skin abuzz. Just as they get through the door, Yuuri presses Viktor against the wall and places an open-mouthed kiss on his lips. 

Yuuri moans at the taste of his tongue. He’d been drinking the same strawberry champagne Christophe had brought, the sweet aftertaste dancing on Yuuri’s own tongue as they continue the kiss. Everything about Viktor is delicious, filling his slightly numbed senses with the smell of aftershave and raspberry cream. 

He breaks from Viktor’s mouth and looks at him through half lidded, glazed eyes. “Bath?” he says, nodding towards the king-sized tub in the bathroom.

Despite all the heat, and want Yuuri had shared in that kiss, they don’t do anything in the bath. It has been as long as day as it had been fun, and both were too tired to put enough energy into sex. 

“Save it for the honeymoon,” Viktor says as they shift closer together under the jets of warm water. 

Yuuri sighs and melts into Viktor’s embrace. “Agreed,” he breathes, closing his eyes.

Viktor takes a small sip of the hot chocolate latte he had ordered from room service and sets the mug down on the floor. His hands begin to lather the pink bubbles into Yuuri’s dark brown locks. His mouth parts by Yuuri’s ear and begin to softly sing a slow melody. 

“ _ When the rain is blowing in your face _ ,” he sings a soft American love song, one he had skated to when he was seventeen. His voice isn’t the best, as it soft and crackly, accented with that beautiful Russian lilt Yuuri loves so much. “ _ And the whole world is on your case. I will offer you a warm embrace. To make you feel my love. _ ”

Yuuri blinks his bleary eyes and presses a kiss to Viktor’s arm wrapped around him.

All that anxiety, all that worry, just melts away


End file.
